When The Crowds Are Gone
by Unoriginality
Summary: Nothing made sense in the wake of Maes's death.


_And the lights, turn them off my friends,_

_And the ghosts, we'll just let them in,_

_'Cause in the dark, it's easier to see._

There was a hole in Roy that whiskey couldn't fill. It was the part of him that expected a phone call that started with some variation of "have you heard the cute thing Elysia did?" It was the part of him that had a best friend that was more of a brother than a friend. It was where a loved one used to reside.

Roy's house was darkened, only a couple small oil lamps burning. The thunderstorm raging outside had knocked out the power. Roy had barely noticed more than it took to light the lamps and a couple candles that sat on the counter in the bathroom. It was raining and his whiskey was still not enough to keep him dry.

He hadn't cried at the funeral. He cried a little immediately after, but he hadn't cried during the funeral. He wasn't sure if his friend had deserved better than his stoicism or if his friend would've preferred some sort of celebration of the good times now past.

It was a moot point by now, he supposed.

Another shot of whiskey chased the previous one down and Roy sighed, looking at the half-empty tumbler. "You would've killed me, Maes," he said quietly, swirling the amber liquor in the glass. "Too much whiskey's bad for me."

The glass was emptied and set down on the table. He debated about refilling it for the second time. His shaking hand told him no. The hole in his chest told him yes. He settled for indecision, staring at the bottle as if staring down a dangerous opponent.

"You'll regret it in the morning."

He could hear Maes scolding him. Maes always did get a bit fussy at Roy whenever Roy started hitting the drink hard. For good reason. Some days, Roy would suspect himself of becoming an alcoholic if not for Maes's interference. Only during bad times, though. He barely touched the stuff any other time.

And this qualified as a bad time.

He sighed, capping the bottle. "You win, Maes," he said softly. Going to the bottom of a bottle was hardly the way to get to the top.

Roy had no idea how he'd get anywhere without Maes. Maes had been so integral, not just to Roy's goal, but to Roy himself. What would he do without the daily calls about Elysia, the constant pictures, the carelessly happy attitude? He'd wither, that's what he'd do. Like a plant deprived of sunlight, he'd wither in his dark world of lies and machinations without his friend, his brother to breathe a bit of life back into his dreary world.

A clap of thunder made him jump as he reached for the bottle to put it away; the bottle ended up crashing to the ground instead. Thankfully, the thick glass held and didn't shatter. Roy stared at it blankly for a moment before reaching down and picking it up, inspecting it for cracks. None. "Would've been a waste," he muttered, getting up to put the bottle back in its place on his bookshelf.

_I've definitely had enough,_ he thought. _I'm talking to myself now. I suppose as long as I don't answer back, I'm still okay._

"I'd rather be talking to you, Maes," he said quietly, leaning his forehead against the bookshelf. But Maes didn't answer him, couldn't answer him. His friend was dead, cold and buried in Central and there wasn't a goddamn thing Roy could do about it. Murdered because of something he found that he'd tried to tell Roy. If only Roy had answered that phone sooner. If only he'd been there. If only he'd never asked such a dear friend to help with such a dangerous idea.

If only.

A million things he might've done differently and he had no idea if any of them would've saved his friend.

Roy wandered back to his desk, his plea to his friend unheard by anyone but himself and the storm, his path lit dimly by the kerosene lamps set out. Power would probably not be restored until morning sometime. If Roy were smart, he'd go to bed right now and brace himself for the inevitable hangover.

If Roy were smart. But who said a grieving man was smart?

Roy sat back down at the desk, looking blankly at the empty tumbler. It was empty and he felt he should refill it, as if that would somehow fill up that empty spot in him. It wouldn't, he knew it. No amount of drinking would bring Maes back, no, not even if he got drunk enough to imagine it. Maes was gone.

Maes was gone. Killed because of him.

Roy grabbed the tumbler and flung it across the room, the glass making a satisfying shattering sound against the wall, the noise almost lost under another boom of thunder.

"Goddamnit, Maes, why didn't you stay out of it?" he yelled at no one at all. "You'd still be alive if you'd just kept your damn head down!" His tired, drunken mind ignored the fact that he was crying. "What are Gracia and Elysia supposed to do now that you're gone?" There was no answer to ravings, nothing but the crashing of thunder outside the window. "What am _I_ supposed to do?" he asked as his voice dropped off, choking on a sob that was only half welcomed.

He let out a wordless noise, clenching his fists on the desk. The storm answered him in kind, rattling his windows and covering up the sound of his crying. He felt like something inside of him had died when he got the news that Maes was dead.

Maes was dead and it didn't make _sense_. Maes couldn't be dead. Roy couldn't imagine it. He still expected to hear his phone ring tomorrow and Maes's voice to greet him. He still expected to receive pictures in the mail. How could Maes be dead? There was too much yet to do. Elysia was only four. Who was going to give her first date the 'you make her cry I make you cry' speech? Who was going to walk her down the aisle when she someday got married?

Who was going to continue to harass Roy to get married and have his own kids to do all that for someday?

"Damn you, Maes." He should be _there_ and it didn't make _sense_. It hadn't made sense when he first heard the news and it still didn't.

But that didn't change the truth of it. Maes was dead. He was gone and he wasn't coming back.

Roy laid his head down on the desk and cried for his lost friend. Maybe the tears would erase that empty spot. He knew better, though. Nothing would ever fill in that spot. That was Maes's spot. And it'd always be missing him.


End file.
